A Pair of Red Eyes
by JustDrinkTea
Summary: Your name is John Egbert and Dave Strider just died a horrible, painful death in your arms. JohnDave, DaveJohn, PepsiCola, Hammertime, JohnxDave, DavexJohn


Your name is John Egbert and you just observed the death of your best bro.

It should've been you, you think as the sword is swiftly removed from his torso.

It should've been you, you think as you rush to his crumpled body.

It should've been you, you think as you swiftly attack the dark figure looming over him.

...as it disappears to somewhere else in Paradox Space.

...as your hammer slips from your grip, landing with a thump.

...as you kneel down to his side.

You take in a deep, shaky breath. "...Dave?"

There's no outspoken response from him, just shallow, irregular gasps. He tries to move, tries to cover up the wound in his stomach. To hide it from you.

Before you know why you're doing, you grab his arm, stopping him. Your lips are pursed, your eyes scrunched to try and keep the threatening tears from falling. His already red clothes are starting to stain with a darker shade of red. In a sudden rush, you rip off your long hood, crumpling it up roughly. Then, contrasting your harsh actions seconds before, you gently, very gently roll him onto his back, followed by his shirt.

He hisses as you press the soft blue fabric to the bloodied wound. "F... f-fuck, John...!" he manages to rasp out, still trying to keep his voice and emotions collected, even now.

"Shh..." You bite your lip, directing your attention up to the dark sky so you won't have to look down at all the blood Dave is losing. Your eyes are already overflowing, despite your best efforts. "I'm sorry," you choke out, glancing down at his face. "It'll-it'll only hurt for a... a bit." Your voice is shaking.

His face is contorted in pain, his eyebrows knit tight just above the rims of his sunglasses. It's the first time you've seen them since you mailed them away and they look the same as they had then- maybe even better. There wasn't a single scratch, not even after the months Dave had spent navigating the endless timelines Paradox Space had to offer to the Knight.

You wonder just how long Dave had technically spent in the game. How many times he'd witnessed your death. How exhausted he must feel now.

You wonder if he'd welcome death now.

A chocked sob escapes your throat.

"J... John..." He puts a hand on yours. "C'mon..." His voice is just barely above a whisper. He knows it's useless; you can't stop the bleeding now. You can't keep him alive. That sword was meant for you and he took it. Like a hero.

But you don't want to admit that. "Dave... Dave, you'll be okay...!"

He squeezes your hand. It takes you a moment to realize that it's not a comforting gesture; all his muscles have gone tense and he's holding his breath, teeth gritting in pain. His usual debonair demeanor shatters the moment he rips off his hood. His sunglasses follow, and despite the lengths he's gone to to keep them perfect, he throws them to the side.

You don't know what to do.

His eyes are squeezed shut and his hand finds itself tangled in his hair, soon joined by the other. Tiny sobs and whimpers escape his lips- not out of fear, but of pure pain. "It hurts...!" he manages, louder now than he was a moment ago, sweat shiny on his brow.

It's then you realize he's crying, too.

Carefully as you can, you gather him in your arms, hot tears running down your cheeks as you do. He clings to your shirt and buries his face in your chest. He mumbles out a string of incoherent curses, accompanied by 'oh god' and 'make it stop'.

All you can do is rub circles in his back. "Shh... Sh..." You move from his back to his hair, stroking it as tenderly as you can manage. But in reality, you're just moment away from tearing out your own hair. You feel just as helpless as he does, you're just as powerless as he. All you can do is hold him and bury your face in his hair and try not to think about how he's dying in your arms.

But he is. And there's nothing you can do to stop it from happening.

He pries himself away from you just enough so he can lean up and press his lips to yours. It's quick and wet from the both of your tears, and he's shaking, but it doesn't mean any less than any other kiss.

He rests his head on your shoulder, short grunts resonating from the back of his throat. "S-sorry I couldn't... take-take ya out to... dinner first..." he whispers, accompanied by a breathless laugh. He's getting a lot heavier now, resting all his weight against you.

"Dave...-"

"I love you, John," he manages to breathe out without so much as a stutter.

You begin to sob. And as much as you want to, you can't form coherent sentences, everything coming out as a wordless babble composed of 'Dave' and 'please don't go' and 'no'. You clutch his closer to you, as close as you can. "Dave," you manage, "Dave, I love you- please don't- you can't! You can't! You can't..."

You feel him smile against your neck and suddenly he is still in your arms. His shaking has stopped and his muscles all relax at once. He begins to whisper one last thing, but you panic and begin shrieking his name, hoping that maybe, maybe you can keep him with you. That everything will be okay.

But you'll never know what he said, because in less than a minute, Dave Strider is dead in your arms.

For a little while longer, you hold onto him still, angry and crying and panicked and helpless. But then your eyes run dry. You're so broken you can't even cry anymore.

As gently as you had picked him up, you lay Dave's body down. He stares up at you, his eyes red and unseeing. The irises the most brilliant shade of rouge you'd ever seen, but they're so bloodshot, so swollen from crying and lack of sleep that you can't appreciate their beauty. You feel a tight knot in your stomach; you can't look at them anymore. With an unsteady hand, you move to close his pale eyelids over those blind eyes. Then his arms, you move them to cross over his chest, elbows slightly obscuring the hole in his middle.

You try to convince yourself he could just be sleeping, but you know better. Dave Strider would never look so peaceful, not even in his sleep.

Slowly, you rise to your feet, feeling empty and dead. But you're not the one laying motionless on the ground, you think as you gather your bloodstained hood off the ground.

Dave is.


End file.
